


Deadborn

by Aerosol



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Kinda, Laufey makes a decision, Loki Feels, Loki is a baby, Other, Sad, War, laufey's bad parenting, poor loki!, timeline before canon, tragic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 15:22:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3386666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerosol/pseuds/Aerosol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a deadborn needs no name...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deadborn

The child sleeps in his arms while the winds of a raging snowstorm cut like knives into his bare flesh.  
  
It has laid the head on his chest, an azure cheek confidently nestled to where his iron heart beats. It was not always made of iron. Not when he was young. But the years have sharpened the spirit behind and hardened the skin over it. Laufey bows his head lightly and looks at his snoozing son as if he was seeing him for the first time.  
‘How tiny he is’  thinks the king of the frost giants ‘Like a weak and skinny ball with arms and legs. He is glass. And I am stone.’  
The child is only a few days old. The youngest son of three.  
Byleistr and Helblindi are the other ones. Tough and young, barely ten years old, and they’ve already grown a height that reaches Laufey’s abdomen easily. He is proud of them. He seeks satisfaction in their powerful appeareance, their broad, muscular stature.  
Magnificent Jotuns. Survivors.  
 The newborn yawns quietly and no matter how timidly this sound goes down in the rage of nature, it is sufficient enough to gain Laufey's attention.  
  
He fights.  
The king struggles with himself. But the real war is yet to come.  
  
When the last ray of light flees from the horizon, the Aesir will start their battle.  
Laufey turns his gaze to the sky. The sun is low. It glows red, red as the blood that will soon soak this frozen earth. Giant blood and God blood. Laufey takes a deep breath. _Death_. Death lingers in the air. Centuries have taught him this sense and in times like these he does not want to miss it. Can’t.  
The roaring wind scatters snow crystals in his relentless burgundy eyes and lets them burn. Proficiently he blinks the short-lived pain away.  
This is his world. The frost, the cold, the barren rock fields. They belong to him and his family as the water to the earth and the moon to the night. It is home. He knows and appreciates nothing else but this. But he also knows the conditions in Jotunheim are hard. It's cruel and not uncommonly brutal to survive here.  
Anyone who is not already provided with necessary attributes in birth, dies soon or gets killed by others. Natural selection. The most horrible and safest law of all.  
  
And then there is this newborn in his arms, this poor little worm, which buries its skinny fists so firmly in the wolf's fur of his sash like he was the only foothold in the whole realm.  
Its first and last hope. Its _God_.  
Laufey swallows, because he understands that this is basically the reality.  
For the little one, at least.  
  
Because for it, Laufey is the center of its limited perception. Everything it knows and is acquainted to. It depends on his decisions and is dependent on the raw heat of the corrupt body, which acts much more inviting than the powdery snow, to which the king now embeds the body carefully.  
Almost gently, Laufey puts the naked baby on flawless white. He hesitates (briefly) before he clips the locked fingers of his sash, tries to pose them on the pale blue chest. Suddenly the hands grasp again, snapping like a bear trap. One grabs his right index finger and holds it. Clutches in desperation. A silent plea (?)  
Laufey solidifies. He is surprised by the force the child puts in its grip.  
A bitter smile slots in his weathered mouth. His son. His ...  
He finds a strange comfort in that thought. At the same time it’s as if his intestines are ripped out. There's a stinging in his chest. A pain, dull and steady. He is surprised that he still can feel such pain. That he is able to _feel_ itself. Jotuns should not feel. Especially not their king. Especially not their ...  
  
The child is not created for eternal ice.  
He has to think and go back into memory. What he chooses to do is correct. Law. Only the strong survive and preserve the race.  
Each additional breath in their ranks would be an ordeal for his son. And yet there is slight doubt in the king. He pushes it away, but he can not deny.  
  
Does he have a choice?  
No.  
No, he has not.  
Among the Jotuns he is a god. But not even a god can fight the inevitable fate. Ragnarok is coming.  
  
And his son's death is only a matter of time.  
  
So he frees himself from the clinging child and stands up. One last time he looks at his ward. Watches it breathe.  
It keeps eyes closed as ever. The son, with the facial features of his ancestors and the topaz skin of his recently deceased Farbauti.  
Oh Farbauti, what would she say if she saw him now? Would she understand? Would she condemn?  
Laufey does not know, because Farbauti is dead and will not support him today.  
Many miles away from this place, an army of hardened men awaits their ruler.  
  
It's war, and war has no place for fragile creatures like this little child. He has to take responsibility. He isn’t allowed to be selfish.  
And he finally turns his back on the scene. Goes. The sun has fallen down. A battle has to be fought. They need him. More than ever.  
  
Later, he will not admit he quickened his pace, as behind him a loud, long-drawn cry begins.  
It blasts in his ears all the way.  
And even when he holds the vibrant urn, source of all their power, in his hands, he hears the echo of a tender voice, which name has never been written.  
  
What for? A deadborn needs no name.  
  


 

* * *

 

 

  
  
Laufey spits blood.  
  
He wipes it off to see how the red paires with the blue of his hand. A violet shimmer.  
  
The battle is over and so is war. And his body is a map of large and small cuts.  
The Aesir have won. The urn is gone.  
He licks his wounds.  
  
His people are no better. Many have fallen. It stinks of corruption and clotted blood. Uprooted institutions limit the field of battle the tundra.  
He wrinkles his nose.  
And he thinks of the child. The child, he has left behind.  
It tastes like fermented metal on his tongue and invisibly shackle on his wrists.  
Then he stands up for no particular reason, staggers from the throne room. He is drawn to the temple. **The** temple. It's been hours since he has covered the baby in the snow there. Hours.  
Long frozen. It must have long frozen since. Dead.  
  
Laufey goes anyway. He goes and does not think twice. There are miracles. There are still wonders ... aren’t they?  
  
But when he arrives at the temple, his son is gone.  
No matter where he looks, there is snow. But no child.  
Laufey feels something he is not familiar with otherwise. A touch of panic. Fear.  
He falls to his knees and digs doggedly in the cold powder. his marble heart is panting softly.  
  
'He's not there,’ he acknowledges, and the darkness of the night shines in the soulless rubies he calls his eyes ‘He is not there. Where IS he !? '.  
  
And he wants to cry and does not know why. And he wants to call for his son, yell after him, but he does not know what to say.  
He has given him no name. He has given him no ...  
  
He searches all night even though he could as well given up immediately, for he knows from own experience - What eats the snow, won’t show up ever again.  
Eventually, the king finally stops. Quietly he admits his second defeat.  
And to his own horror, he can not decide which is the worse for him now.  
  
Finally, as the sun colors the mountain tops golden, he moves away from the sinister place and returns to his shattered kingdom. To sits on his worthless throne in silence.  
  
For now, he has truly lost everything there was to lose.  
  
And maybe, deep down under the steel armor of his mind and the scar braid on his flesh he sheds a single, regretful tear.  
  
For the deadborn without a name.


End file.
